Reykjavik Nights Page 7

  ‘Drowned him, you mean?’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me. He said they were ugly customers.’

  ‘Ólafur believed Hannibal had been deliberately drowned.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘But that’s all he knew. Why would they have wanted Hannibal dead?’

  ‘Because he knew they were behind the fire?’ Bergmundur suggested. ‘Search me. Maybe he had something else on them.’

  ‘You mean they wanted to silence him?’

  ‘Of course, why not? It’s not unheard of. Hannibal had something on them, so they bumped him off.’

  The rumble of traffic carried to them from below. Erlendur gazed out over the harbour and beyond to Faxaflói Bay, where the Akranes ferry was coming in to shore.

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather I just bought you some brennivín?’ he asked, reluctant to go to the chemist for the man.

  ‘No,’ said Bergmundur after a moment’s consideration. ‘Make it meths.’

  A few minutes later Erlendur found himself on Laugavegur in Bergmundur’s company, headed for the nearest chemist’s. On the way he tried to come up with an excuse for purchasing a bulk order of methylated spirits that would not arouse suspicion. While Bergmundur waited outside, he hurried in and asked for five bottles of the stuff. The sales assistant hesitated before fetching them, and watched with a censorious expression as he counted out the coins. Erlendur was sure she had him down as recently lapsed.

  14

  The brothers who used to live next door to Hannibal had found themselves more salubrious accommodation on Fálkagata. Erlendur had obtained their names from Frímann. He decided to pay them a visit the day after his meeting with Bergmundur, combining it with a stroll along Ægisída, on the city’s western shore, to enjoy the salty evening air. Since his plan was to drop by unannounced, he thought he stood the best chance of catching them directly after supper. He was right. When he arrived they had just settled down to watch the news. Ellert and Vignir were both around forty, born no more than two years apart, though they looked nothing like each other. One was stocky and ungainly with coarse features; the other tall and lean with finer features, yet it seemed they were inseparable. Frímann thought they both worked as carpenters or builders. As far as he knew, in the seven years they had been his neighbours no woman had ever darkened their door.

  Vignir, the stocky one, answered Erlendur’s knock. He did not appear unduly surprised to receive an unexpected visit, as if the brothers were used to having their evenings disturbed. Erlendur introduced himself as an acquaintance of Hannibal, their old neighbour – if that was the right word – who had died suddenly about a year ago, and wondered if he could ask them a few questions about him.

  By the time Erlendur had finished Ellert had joined his brother in the doorway. They exchanged glances.

  ‘Will it take long?’ asked Ellert.

  ‘No, not long. I only have a couple of questions.’

  ‘We were just about to watch Ironside.’ Vignir ushered him in. ‘Never miss it.’

  ‘Oh no, shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Erlendur, unsure what he was referring to. ‘I won’t stay long.’

  The television set in the sitting room looked brand new. The news had finished and a nature programme was starting. The entire time the brothers were talking to Erlendur they kept one eye on the box, as if resenting every minute they missed of the broadcast.

  ‘We’ve just bought a new set,’ said Vignir.

  ‘Our old one was on its last legs,’ added his brother.

  It emerged that they’d barely interacted with Hannibal. Not that they had anything against a tramp living next door. He had rarely been home, except now and then to sleep. Frímann had asked them if they minded his taking refuge there, and the brothers had made no objection. Hannibal was no trouble; he never made any noise or had any guests, male or female, so, to cut a long story short, they’d had no reason to complain.

  ‘He never brought any bums home with him,’ said Vignir.

  ‘No, not that I noticed,’ agreed Ellert.

  ‘Though there was no lock on the door,’ Erlendur pointed out, ‘so anyone could have walked in.’

  ‘Actually there used to be a padlock,’ said Vignir, ‘but I gather Hannibal lost the key one night and had to break in.’

  ‘We had nothing to do with the guy,’ said Ellert.

  ‘Frímann seems to have been very easygoing,’ remarked Erlendur.

  The brothers did not reply. They were watching, fascinated, as a lioness sank her claws into an antelope. They were seated in twin armchairs, parked directly in front of the television, their faces lit up by the glare.

  ‘Bloody hell, look at that,’ exclaimed Vignir as the pride began to rip the antelope apart.

  Erlendur did not like to interrupt, so for several minutes the three of them sat there, intent on the events unfolding on screen. The sitting room was small and carpeted, furnished with bookshelves but few ornaments. The whole flat appeared to be very tidy. From where he was sitting, Erlendur could see into a compact kitchen. He wondered idly whether they took it in turns to cook or shared the housework. He might as well have been visiting a contented married couple.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Vignir when the lions had finally had their fill.

  ‘Oh, I was asking about Frímann,’ said Erlendur. ‘Any idea why he’s selling the house?’

  ‘Obviously skint,’ said Ellert.

  ‘Probably needs the money,’ agreed Vignir.

  ‘But do you know why?’

  ‘No,’ said Ellert.

  ‘What happened the night the house caught fire?’

  ‘The guy nearly burnt it down,’ said Vignir. ‘If we’d gone to bed, there’s no telling what would have happened. The whole place would have gone up in smoke. But luckily we were still up.’

  ‘The broadcast went on quite late that evening,’ said Ellert. ‘Probably saved his life.’ His eyes flickered back to the box.

  ‘I smelt burning,’ elaborated Vignir. ‘Looked out of the window, only to see smoke coming from the basement. We ran out and by then flames were blazing up inside the door. Fortunately, though, the fire hadn’t caught hold, so we were able to put it out. Ellert burnt his hand.’

  ‘It was nothing serious,’ said Ellert. ‘We pulled Hannibal out. He was coughing his guts up but was all right apart from that.’

  ‘Did he know how it started?’

  ‘We never got a chance to ask,’ said Vignir. ‘He just staggered away as if it had nothing to do with him. Don’t know if he ever came back after that.’

  ‘He was pissed,’ said Ellert with conviction.

  ‘Smashed out of his skull,’ confirmed his brother.

  ‘And you didn’t call the fire brigade?’

  ‘What for? The fire was out. And the damage wasn’t that bad. We rang Frímann, and he came over but didn’t call the police or anything. Just said it was an unfortunate accident. Immediately assumed it was Hannibal’s fault. Must have banned him from ever coming back.’

  ‘The couple who lived upstairs were out,’ prompted Erlendur.

  ‘Yes, apparently.’

  ‘So you believe Hannibal somehow kicked a candle over and that’s how the fire started.’

  ‘Well, we found a stub by the door in a load of rubbish, cardboard and so on’ said Ellert. ‘So it seemed a likely explanation.’

  ‘Were you aware of Hannibal using candles down there?’

  ‘How would I know?’ said Ellert. ‘I never went inside. Like I said, I didn’t know the guy.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Vignir.

  ‘Did it occur to you that someone might have started the fire deliberately – to harm Hannibal?’

  ‘Well, if they did, they’d only have had to reach inside the door,’ said Ellert, becoming restless now that the nature programme was finishing and Ironside was on next.

  ‘Who knew he lived there?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ said Ellert. ‘No one ever came to s
ee him. At least, not that we were aware of.’

  A popular furniture advertisement came on and the brothers were instantly transfixed. A woman’s hand caressed a plastic tabletop. ‘Is this marble?’ the voiceover asked. ‘No, Formica,’ came the cooing reply. Cupboard doors were opened. ‘Is this hardwood?’ ‘No, Formica.’

  ‘But Hannibal was afraid of fire,’ objected Erlendur. ‘I know he was scared to use candles because he was terrified of exactly that kind of accident. I don’t believe he’d have lit a candle, let alone knocked one over, drunk or sober.’

  ‘Oh?’ grunted Vignir distractedly.

  ‘It’s starting,’ said Ellert, gesturing at the screen.

  The brothers gave it their undivided attention.

  ‘So you never fell out with Hannibal?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About anything he was up to. Or you were up to, for that matter.’

  ‘No.’ Vignir turned to look at him. ‘What are you implying?’

  Erlendur hesitated, uncertain how far he should go in making accusations based only on hearsay. Besides, he was there in a private capacity and needed to tread carefully; he didn’t know how to play this, had no experience of detective work. To the brothers he was nothing more than an annoying bloke butting in on their quiet night at home.

  ‘I’ve heard he blamed you for the fire,’ he said at last.

  ‘That’s a lie,’ retorted Ellert.

  ‘Bollocks,’ snorted his brother.

  ‘That he had something on you that –’

  ‘What do you mean? He had nothing on us,’ said Ellert. ‘Look, we didn’t even know the man. Someone’s been having you on, mate.’

  ‘So you deny it?’

  ‘It’s total bullshit,’ said Ellert. ‘I hope you’re not going around spreading this kind of shit.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Erlendur rose to his feet. ‘Well, I’d better not take up any more of your time. Thanks, and sorry to bother you.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Vignir. ‘Sorry we couldn’t be any more help.’

  ‘Is he in a wheelchair?’ Erlendur blurted out as the credits rolled and the main character appeared. He was unfamiliar with the programme as he did not own a television himself.

  ‘Yes, it really holds him back,’ Vignir replied earnestly.

  They did not see him out but remained riveted to the screen. Erlendur walked home in the light evening breeze, marvelling that the brothers were more interested in gawping at the fictitious crimes of an American TV series than discussing a mysterious incident in their own lives, an incident that had nearly resulted in the death of a man they knew.

  15

  Erlendur was sound asleep when the phone started ringing. Shrill and insistent, it echoed through the flat until finally he dragged himself to his feet and answered it. The man on the other end sounded distinctly agitated.

  ‘Is that Erlendur Sveinsson?’ he demanded brusquely.

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘I’ve just been talking to my sister Rebekka. She told me about your conversations and what you said about me and I wanted to tell you that it’s outrageous! To imply … to imply I harmed my brother Hannibal is insane and if you keep spreading lies like that I’ll be forced to take action. How dare you suggest that? How dare you!’

  The brother, Erlendur thought.

  ‘I won’t have you poking your nose into something that’s none of your business,’ the man went on. ‘And as for spreading lies about me, it’s downright disgusting.’

  ‘But I don’t believe I have,’ Erlendur objected.

  ‘No? That’s not what it sounds like to me.’

  ‘Everything I discussed with your sister was in strict confidence. The thing is, I knew your brother a little and I want to find out how he ended up drowning like that.’

  ‘You’re interfering in a painful family matter that has nothing whatsoever to do with you and I want you to stop,’ said the man. ‘Right now! Rebekka told me you’re a junior officer and have no involvement with the inquiry. I’ll complain to your superiors if you don’t stop.’

  ‘Actually, Rebekka was keen to help,’ said Erlendur.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We had a long talk which, let me stress, was in complete confidence. I don’t know what she told you but if you’re under the impression I was disrespectful then I must apologise. I’d very much like to meet you and discuss the matter in person. If you’d be interested.’

  ‘Meet me? Out of the question! You can leave me alone. And leave my sister alone too. This is none of your business. I repeat, none!’

  ‘Hannibal was –’

  Before Erlendur could finish the man had slammed down the phone.

  * * *

  That night Erlendur was more taciturn than usual. It was one of their quieter shifts. They were on traffic duty and so far all they had done was pick up a man on suspicion of driving over the limit, a charge he stubbornly denied. He had hit a cyclist, a baker on his way to work, who claimed that the man had reeked of alcohol and had shoved a handful of liquorice sweets in his mouth while they were waiting for the police. The cyclist was understandably furious. Not only was he injured but his new bike was practically written off. They dropped him at Casualty on their way to take the driver for a blood test. The whole way there the driver ranted and blustered about the pointlessness of the exercise; it was all a big misunderstanding that he had been drinking; he would report them and make sure that they lost their jobs.

  Threats like these were run of the mill and Erlendur turned a deaf ear to the man’s remonstrations. All evening he had been distracted by thoughts of Hannibal and the phone call from his brother.

  ‘You all right, Erlendur?’ asked Marteinn after they had submitted their report and a specimen and were back in the police van, cruising down Laugavegur.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, his mind far away.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ said Gardar, who was driving.

  When Erlendur did not respond, Marteinn shot a quizzical glance at Gardar. They let it drop. As they drove along Pósthússtræti they spotted a vagrant and Erlendur saw that it was Bergmundur. He must have long since finished the meths Erlendur had bought him in exchange for information. He was leaning against a building, not moving at all.

  ‘Should we check on him?’ asked Marteinn.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Erlendur. ‘I know him. You can drive around the block in the meantime.’

  Gardar paused to let him out, then drove off along Austurstræti. Erlendur walked up to Bergmundur and said hello. Bergmundur stared back glassily; it took him a minute before he could place Erlendur. No doubt he was confused by the white cap, the baton hanging at his side. The tramp kept looking his uniform up and down. Finally he twigged.

  ‘You’re never … a bloody cop?’ he slurred in a voice so thick it was almost incomprehensible.

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘But you bought me … that meths?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘What the … hell. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Why should I?’ said Erlendur. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m … fine. Needn’t … worry … ’bout me.’

  He was utterly plastered, remaining upright only by propping himself against the wall. Since they last met his face had acquired a new graze, probably from a fall, and he stank to high heaven.

  ‘Why don’t you come with me and sleep it off at the station?’ asked Erlendur. ‘You can’t stand here all night.’

  ‘No, I’m going … going … see my girl, my Thurí. You needn’t … bother ’bout me.’

  ‘Thurí?’

  ‘Wonderful … woman. My girl … she’s…’ The rest was unintelligible.

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘You know … up on … Atmanssígur … At … Amtsstíg…’

  It took Bergmundur several attempts to articulate the street name. He waved a hand, nearly overbalanced, and Erlendur reached out and steadied him. There was a hos
tel for female alcoholics on Amtmannsstígur, run by Reykjavík Social Services. He had never been there himself but knew of its existence from the female drunks who occasionally spent a night in the cells.

  ‘Is she staying at the hostel?’ he asked.

  ‘Thurí’s honest … honest, a good woman,’ said Bergmundur, assuming a pious expression.

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Erlendur. ‘But are you sure she’ll want to see you in this state?’

  ‘State … what state?’

  Marteinn and Gardar drew up beside them, their circuit complete, and Erlendur gestured for them to give him a minute. The police van rolled forward a few metres and stopped again.

  ‘Maybe you should postpone your visit till tomorrow morning,’ said Erlendur. ‘Where are you living?’

  ‘Where…?’

  ‘I’ll take you home.’

  ‘I’m … see Thurí…’

  ‘Maybe you should go another time.’

  ‘If she … carry on with … Hannibal … good enough for me.’

  ‘Hannibal?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What about him? Did he and Thurí know each other?’

  ‘Of … course.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I … I…’

  But by now Bergmundur was beyond speech.

  ‘Were they lovers?’

  Bergmundur slid slowly down the wall until he was sitting on the road with one leg folded beneath him. Erlendur made a sign to his colleagues and the police van reversed towards them. They decided to take Bergmundur to the station to sleep it off and he made no protest as they lifted him into the back of the vehicle. Erlendur tried to talk to him but it was futile. The man had slipped into oblivion.

  16

  Although on the outside it was indistinguishable from the other houses in the old Thingholt neighbourhood, the hostel on Amtmannsstígur provided sanctuary for women with drink problems who had nowhere else to turn. There was a female warden who ensured that the house rules were observed and who kept an eye on the cleaning, but otherwise the women had the place to themselves. When Erlendur paid a visit, the hostel had no fewer than eight residents receiving food, lodging and a refuge from life on the street. All were alcoholics who had been reduced to vagrancy, like the men at the Fever Hospital. Some had been battling for many years with the ‘bloody booze’.